


Beg for It

by FJBryan



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Birthday, Birthday Presents, Birthday Sex, M/M, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-26
Updated: 2014-08-26
Packaged: 2018-02-14 20:49:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2202624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FJBryan/pseuds/FJBryan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bodie gets a birthday present to remember</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beg for It

At Close Quarters in 2007, we talked about the best stories of various genres, but we couldn't come up with a good one for this category. It's been nagging me ever since. Enjoy.

Originally published: March 30, 2009 on LiveJournal. Disclaimer: Don't own the Lads. If I did, well, I'd share with the rest of you.

 

“You know the rule,” Doyle said, so softly that Bodie could barely hear it. His ears were, for many good reasons, not working very well. It could have something to do with his own nakedness, spread-eagled across the bed, clean after a shower and ready for loving. Or possibly Ray’s skin, plastered to the length of it with his own. Or it could have something to do with the thread of light formed by a slit of bathroom door and jamb. The light sliced across the bedroom darkness and illuminated whorls of faint color in Ray’s curls, making them shimmer in a myriad of auburns and browns and russets, so beautiful that Bodie’s heart occasionally skipped when it was not supposed to.

“You _**made**_ the rule,” Doyle repeated, his fingertip dipping into a bellybutton and tantalizing the skin there. That wasn’t why Bodie shivered, though. A tremor ran through his body, ever so slightly, recalling the night he informed Ray of how they would be spending birthdays until further notice. As a special birthday gift, he informed Doyle, Bodie would take it upon himself to give Ray such a fantastic sexual experience that by the end, Ray would be begging for release. And he did—after an hour wearing a cockring and some expert Bodie-fellatio and prostate massage, Ray had been shouting the house down, begging unrepentantly.

A few months later, a different birthday, and now, it was Bodie’s turn. _He’ll never make me say it._

Could Doyle do it, make a strong man want to beg? How?

“Are you ready to say it right now? ‘d be simpler that way.” A teasing offer, not meant to be taken seriously. The opening gambit in a lover’s game.

Bodie shook his head, emphatically not ready. No tough man gave up that easily. Not yet. Besides, where was the fun in that? In the darkened room, he didn’t have to give away anything, not even the word “no.” Doyle could earn it, if he were clever enough. And 4.5 was nothing if not clever, as Bodie knew from long experience. What would he do?

Ray reached down beside the bed, and Bodie heard a carrier bag rustle.

Ray’s weight shifted away from him, sitting up next to him, at the center of the bed. A rough whisper said, “Turn over, Bodie. Legs apart.”

Bodie turned. Wondering. Pulled a pillow down to cushion face and hands, and waited. Ray was sitting beside him, a knee bent so that it touched Bodie’s side, looking down at his lover, and unseeing, Bodie could still feel those eyes, those gorgeous eyes, sliding down his back, leaving an invisible trail of possession in their wake. A single fingertip glided down his spine a moment later following the same path, gliding from shoulders to upturned rear, a repetition that made every nerve stand up on end. What next? _What would Doyle—_

A feather. Brushing the outside of his thigh, then trailing over the skin to the softer, sensitive inner part. The tip dragged, then lifted, swished, twisted, flicked enough to make the hairs of his leg rise in reaction. Riding the muscle down, a tendril of sensitivity glancing over, against, touching and not touching, dangled and twirled until—

_Knew it, knew he’d go for that!_ The back of each knee, the tenderest of skin, the whisper-kiss of soft feather against each fold, and Bodie’s eyes snapped shut in pleasure. His buttocks tightened as if to escape his tormentor by burrowing into the bed itself, and he began to slide sinuously against the folds of the sheet beneath him, his erection pressed into the mattress, cock growing stiffer with each feather-light caress. Didn’t care that he could predict Doyle’s action, it was fucking fan- _tas_ -tic to be touched there; Bodie’s calves stretched taut and his toes buried into the sheet.

But he’d never beg. This was barely a tease, a taunt—

_Fuck, he’s got a second one._ Doyle had shifted his weight, so that he could get at the backs of both thighs, letting the second feather work a different pattern, up and down the thigh, behind the knee, raising gooseflesh as it passed, while Bodie tried to melt into the bedding before pleasure overwhelmed him, unmanned him, softened him into butter. He couldn’t stop the groan he made, he was hardly a saint and Bodie thought his knees might never support him again if Doyle didn’t leave off with those—

“Need your hands, Bodie. Get ‘em behind you,” came the raspy voice of his partner.

_Behind me? What next, cuffs?_ But Bodie complied, shifting his arms until his hands were at his sides, then lying in the hollow of his back, fingertips upraised. While Bodie’s arms moved, Ray shifted, crawled over him, so that now he knelt between Bodie’s outstretched legs. The tiny hairs on Ray’s legs touched Bodie’s, and a sudden shiver went through him—his whole body now seemed attuned to whatever Ray wanted him to feel. And he couldn’t stop feeling, feeling everything, everything Doyle wanted him to, and more.

The feathers hadn’t stopped moving, but continued dancing an unknown, unrepeated swirl of sensation, one that Bodie could not see, could not anticipate. Knees, calves, a leap to his shoulder blade, down the spine, inside, out, different patterns, sometimes the two moving in tandem, sometimes the feathers separating and arcing off his skin, only to land somewhere else, the sole of his foot, the cupped palm of his upturned hand. Through their insubstantial weight, he could sense Ray’s hands, the sensitive fingertips playing the feathers over skin as if he could paint each individual cell of Bodie’s body with them. Blind to where they would go, Bodie could only relax and enjoy, let the rising level of pleasure fill him up and lead him higher, higher, to Doyle-alone-knew-where. It was as if every nerve in his body had turned on at once, and was vibrating like receptors, waiting for the next signal from his lover to ratchet the intensity higher.

As a feather tantalized the skin at the bottom of one firm cheek, dancing from thigh-top to buttock and back again, Doyle softly ordered, “Spread yourself with your hands.”

_Christ._

But he obeyed, good at taking orders where his own pleasure was concerned. Bodie’s fingers slid down his back, reached into the crack and separated the two mounds, and even the feel of his own hands against the skin was enough to make his cock harder.

One feather tip left his thigh and slid down the back of his hand, into the very crevice he had created, brushing the softest of skin until it came to—

_JesusMaryandJosephRaaaaaay!!!_ The ruched circle of flesh had contracted when cool air first touched it, and the downy soft whisper of feather gliding over it in the next instant was enough to make Bodie whimper.

The feather tip traced long lines from top to bottom, glancing off the knuckles of Bodie’s hands as it passed, and then while it tormented him, the other feather reappeared, making a shimmering pass from one inner thigh to the other, only a moment against the bottom of his balls before it swerved south again. Then reversed, and a touch of gossamer lightness against his balls again. He tried to fight down the shiver it induced, but his body wasn’t cooperating: nerves from his balls to his skull contorted, twisted in rough pleasure. Bodie was hunching his shoulders into the pillow, another groan torn from his throat.

He couldn’t stop himself. “Ray. Ray…what’re you doing?” Not begging. Not yet. But Bodie’s will was bent, no longer his own to command, just like the squirms he couldn’t stop making into the mattress. He couldn’t escape this, and he damned well didn’t want it to stop, either. He barely heard Ray’s reply.

“What’m I doin’? Not much. Yet.”

_Not much? You’ll be scraping me off the ceiling with a butter knife in the morning at the rate things’re goin’._

The feathers ‘disappeared’ and Bodie felt Doyle’s weight shift, hands covered his own, and then...

A tongue, where the feathers had gone. The soft skin of his thigh, then the suppleness of that tongue against his balls, the tip lifting one and lips carefully rubbing against it. A nose, pressed against the soft, folded skin between his balls, followed by the same tongue, drawing a single line on Bodie’s body, up, up, up.

_Christ, he’d never—_

Tongue-tip found opening, and two strong sets of hands tightened with each other, gripping skin, gripping each other, holding on as Bodie moaned. A delicious, growling, full-throated moan of Ray’s name that sank barbed hooks into Doyle’s soul, even as his tongue swirled a circle, clockwise, anti-clockwise, clockwise, anti-clockwise, hypnotic, repeating, Bodie’s most sensitive skin bathed in moisture and love. By this point, Bodie was grinding his hips into the bed, humping the sheets in time to Doyle’s tongue, careless of anything except how to make this sensation continue for-fucking-ever.

On the twentieth or thirtieth circuit, Ray began licking Bodie’s fingertips as well, making them share the warm wetness of the skin around them. After fifty or sixty revolutions, enough to have Bodie groaning rhythmically in counterpoint to his every movement, Ray thrust his tongue hard against the opening, and pushed his way against taut, resisting muscle. He kissed and sucked, in alternation, as Bodie threshed against the mattress, cock swollen, balls ready to burst from the pressure. Hips twisting, no escape possible from beautiful torment, Bodie's moans of “ _Ray-Ray-Ray_ ” were part prayer, part invocation for more blessings, or more kisses.

Ray’s tongue finally burrowed past the tight muscle, and he began shoving it into Bodie’s arse, plunging and removing, driving and withdrawing repeatedly while his fingers clenched and unclenched the hands of his partner, and the skin underneath, in a rhythm that seemed to grow faster, wilder, with each heartbeat. “Don’t stop, please, don’t stop, Ray, you-can’t-stop-I’ve-got-to-come-before-youstopanddon’tyoudarestopyousoddingbastardIfuckinglovethis” crowded past his lips and into the night air, and somehow, Bodie could feel Ray grin even as his lips and tongue repeated their dance of torture and love. Every nerve in Bodie’s body was connected to Doyle’s wicked kiss, the lick and pressure of tongue against skin, the swirl and flick from side to side, the very movement of his mouth, the thrust and withdrawal of tongue from arsehole.

Doyle raised his head a fraction, and breathed heavily against Bodie’s hands, obviously warm from the effort. “I suppose ‘please don’t stop Ray’ counts as begging. Well, far be it from me to deny the birthday boy.” Then he lowered his mouth and found the slickness of Bodie’s opening, and started all over again from the beginning, kissing, tongue circling then diving, a torment that could only end with a gush of pressure released. But not yet.

_Happy birthday to me!_

 

\--End--

What was the **genre** we were wondering about at CQ 2007? Rimming


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